


Pickpockets operate in this areas

by Violencio



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Age Difference, Angst, Child Abandonment, Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Dark, Dubious Consent, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Manipulation, Fear, Forced Prostitution, Grooming, Hiding, Johncroft, Kidnapping, M/M, Manipulation, Orphans, Pickpockets, Power Dynamics, Power Play, Psychological Trauma, Sexual Tension, Stealing, Stockholm Syndrome, Training, Trauma, Trust Issues, at least expected prostitution, but Mycroft Holmes is an even worse man, crimes to survive, five finger discount gone wrong, guard dogs, no actual sex yet, shaping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-12
Updated: 2017-02-17
Packaged: 2018-09-23 19:35:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9673016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Violencio/pseuds/Violencio
Summary: The orphans roaming the streets of London was a growing problem, but in the shine of intemational affairs and the constant threat of terrorists it was hardly something that bothered Mycroft Holmes. Sometimes, however, he was famed to walk on the pavement like any other citizen. A short walk around the block and he would be back at his desk signing papers, and he was starting to enjoy the fresh air when something pulled at the chain attached to his pocket watch. His hand acted before his brain and his fingers curled a thin wrist. "What is this?" he said coldly and yanked the boy up to stand on his toes. "A little thief?"Sixteen-year-old John got caught by mid-forties Mycroft. Lucky for him, he isn't being delivered to the police. ...or maybe it is worse that he is taken as a special guest to Mycroft's home? Fact is, he isn't going to leave any time soon, and my, Mr. Holmes does have some expectations.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Another RP I'd like to share with you guys with my lovely RP partner giving their consent for it to be shared, as it is a topic I see far too little of. Also, the world always needs more JohnxMycroft.   
> Updates should arrive twice a week in this length. A little warning: This doesn't have a clean ending. Yet. Maybe it will never have. The prompt was written mid 2014, the last reply followed mid 2015 -- but we are pretty good at picking stuff up if we feel like it.

John has been an orphan as long as he could remember. Well, yes, he knew that he and his sister were left by their parents once he was four, but he couldn't really remember either of them. They have managed to survive so far, with the help of their little group of friends, children with no other background as theirs. Even if that meant they had to… steal. Rarely one got caught, Jim, the leader of their little gang, their family, having taught them everything they needed to know, but at some nights, a child less would return, and even though nobody spoke about it, they knew that the system hardly had the capacity to put all the children into orphanages or jail... It was a dangerous life, but John has never thought that _he_ might be getting caught. But this time, as the sixteen years old had extended his hand to grasp for a golden pocket watch while passing, just sticking his hand into the deep pocket of the nice coat the wealthy looking man wore, he felt his wrist being grabbed tightly, his eyes going wide, his face paling, trying not to look up so the beret could hide his face as he started to struggle himself free

The orphans roaming the streets of London was a growing problem, but in the shine of international affairs and the constant threat of terrorists, it was hardly something that bothered Mycroft Holmes. It was a dark spot in his beloved nation's reputation and the newspapers always loved a good story, which was the extent to which Mycroft got in contact with them. His time was spent at home, in his office, or in a car between the two. If a filthy little thief would dare to approach his house, it would soon be scared off by guards and dogs. Sometimes, however, he was famed to walk on the pavement like any other citizen. All the sitting and exclusion from ordinary humans made him, as Sherlock happily pointed out, fat and pompous. A short walk around the block and he would be back at his desk signing papers, and he was starting to enjoy the fresh air when something pulled at the chain attached to his pocket watch. His hand acted before his brain and his fingers curled a thin wrist. "What is this?" he said coldly and yanked the boy up to stand on his toes. "A little thief?" 

There was a moment, half a second in which John froze as his wrist was grabbed tightly. Tight enough to leave bruises, he realised, his thin arm not really being any protection, but just half a second later he realised that this was his smallest problem. If there was any police officer close, and John wouldn't be running in the next few seconds... who knew what they were doing with the children? Some of them disappeared here and there. John even saw some of them getting caught by the police... They never came back, though. Nobody knew where they go, nobody knew what they were doing, but everyone knew that living on the streets was far better than anywhere the police could bring him. So John struggled, balancing on the rim of panic and hysteria, trying to make the man let go of him, his other hand dashing up to his beret, pulling it deeply into his face. No need for anyone to recognise him once he would be able to run himself free. Not that it really worked... He had managed to outrun an old lady once. But he has been young, childish, cute, and tears had brought him food no matter if stolen or not Not no anymore, though, apparently not able to get out of the man's hold. "Let me go!", he squeaked, still trying to stay quiet, not trying to catch any attention. He was not able to tell if anybody was already looking at them, but he couldn't feel any other pair of hands holding him down. "...please, Sir, let me go, please...", he begged, his heart fluttering loudly in his ear. He could have sworn that the man would be able to hear his heart racing as well as he was kicking against the pavement in a try to get enough friction to break himself free. 

Mycroft sighed and shook his head in disapproval. The boy put up a fight but was still aware of the dangers of attracting the police. Mycroft's pocket watch was hanging from its chain before the man pushed it back where it belonged with a grunt, making sure that everything was neat and tidy before his other hand grabbed the boy around his neck. "Let you go?" he huffed with an eyebrow raised, clearly not amused by the delay. "So you can go and put your filthy little fingers in someone else's pockets?" His fingers were still digging into the wrist of the boy, likely painfully, and he leant a little closer when he moved his thumb over the bay's neck. "A little pressure right here," he mused. "And I could put you to sleep, little boy. I could just leave you here for the police to collect Wouldn't that be something?" He would have to be personally involved. The press could be muted and the police warned to keep their mouth shut, but Sherlock would go on and on about he had messed up the younger brother's special information source. It wouldn't surprise Mycroft if this particular boy proved to be extra important. He lifted the beret enough to see the bay's face and decided that no, this was not one of Sherlock's little companions. Just another unlucky burden for society. "...come with me," he muttered and pulled the boy along with a steady grip around his neck. "Don't scream don't run, or I will call for the officer over there." 

"...please...", John tried it again as the man repeated his request, though his voice was already enough to tell that he wouldn't He wondered if the others were anywhere close... Paul, or Henry, or maybe even little Billy... Maybe they would be able to – the second the hand was placed onto his neck, though, John stilled, just as frozen. No, god, please, little Billy shouldn't be close... Oh, they have heard of those things. Oh, they have found the one or other boy here and there as well in the one or other dark alley... And even though this was not a dark alley, the fear was not to be taken from John in that very moment. Not that anyone would really care if he would really crack his neck right on the spot and by the strong grip around his wrist, John could already tell that he would most likely even be able to do so with his thin and skinny neck... "...please..", he choked out in a pathetic little whimper, cold sweat forming from whatever little water he had actually managed to drink this morning, running over the man's fingers. Another whimper as his beret was lifted, John's knuckles turning white in the fabric but still not able to keep it on his face, trying to avoid to look at the man, rolling his head away from one side to the other. John swallowed as he heard the order, already seeing them going to the officers — though his stomach fell even more as the man did not pull him into the direction of them. Not involving the police? Was that better or worse? ...John was not sure, not really able to choke out anything else in fear, his whole body shaking, knees almost buckling beneath his own weight

Mycroft led the boy through the crowd, quick and swiftly. Anyone who gave them a second look would understand what the boy was. Mycroft was tidy, clean, wore expensive clothes and carried himself with confidence and everything about the boy belonged on some dark back street where he wouldn't defile the fa.e of London. He nodded shortly at the officer to show that he did not wish any assistance and pushed the boy forward with a firm hand. He wasn't yet sure what he was to do with the child. It wasn't even a child anymore, on the brink to adulthood. And without any education or manners, he was sadly useless in any aspect, including something as simple as serving. Before long, they reached Mycroft house and he unlocked the door and shoved it open with his side, pushing the boy inside. "Still," he ordered firmly before he locked the door behind them. "I don't want any dirt in my house. Not to mention lice." He gave the boy a stem look as he unbuttoned his jacket and put it aside. "Shoes and socks off, the bathroom is the third door to the right. Get into the shower, clean yourself, and meet me in the study. If you run the dogs will catch you." With that, he left the boy alone to find the third door to the right. It would be a wonder if he knew how to count. 

The blond was mortified, walking as if he was lead to his own beheading through the crowd of people, shaking like a dog, his teeth rattling together loudly, his heart beating out of his neck, blood and adrenaline pumping through him. He should have bitten him, he thought He should have bitten him when he was still just holding his wrist, and not his neck... Maybe he should try running again... But whenever he just thought about starting to struggle again, the grip on his neck tightened or another police officer appeared. If it at least were good old Officer Leonard... Officer Leonard, almost as wide as tall, never running around more than one dark comer... They were saying, though, that he got a heart attack or something... Not going to get back to work then... And instead of him, there were new officers. Young officers. Officers that were looking for their nests and living areas... John stopped as the were in front of the door, bucking slightly again as the man opened it and obviously wanted him to get inside... He would not be that stupid now, would he?! Who knew what — but just a bit of a stronger push was enough to pull him inside, John stumbling forward until the door was closed, automatically taking down his hat from his head and pressing it to his stomach. No hats inside if you wanted to steal something out of a shop or a church... The streets taught manners as well, even if for different reasons. Confusion was on John's face as he was told to put shoes and socks off and to... take a shower? His eyebrows furrowed a bit as he watched the man undress, about to say something, but staying then quiet again. The dogs... He had seen them... Often enough. He knew that house. And from inside, it looked even far more worthy than from the outside... But the dogs weren't fun. There were stones, that Ann lost two of her fingers because of one of that... bear-sized dogs. Before John took even the smallest step to undress, Mycroft was already gone, and the blond stepped confidently to the third door–on the left. Well, he couldn't do everything right, but that rather looked like a broom closet so John changed directions, not really sure if he should... if he shouldn't.. and in the end, he showered nonetheless. Hot water and soap were... amazing. He might or might not have spent all the bit that has been in the bottle right there... Just as he stepped out and dressed again, though, he realised the problem, stepping out of the bathroom again, his beret once again against his belly. "...where.... where is the study?", he called quietly at first but then repeated the question loudly. Hopefully loud enough for the other to hear, or he would have to check every door one for another... 

Mycroft spent John's showering time rubbing his temples. The headache was returning with new intensity, increasing from the constant throbbing he had learnt to live with until he had to pour himself a glass of scotch and sit down in his armchair with a sigh. If he listened carefully he could hear the sound of dripping water and as the minutes ticked by Mycroft sighed again. He would have to buy a new shower if he ever wanted to use it again. When a small voice was carried through the house he closed his eyes, reminding himself to let Sherlock be responsible for reproduction for the sake of continuing the Holmes name. "Up here, boy," he called, raising his voice just enough to be heard downstairs. It was his house and things would be carried out his way. Feet tapped against the stairs and Mycroft stood to walk up to the window, looking at the street below with his hand behind his back. "You surely took your time, boy," he muttered under his breath when he heard the door open and turned to look at him with cold eyes. "What are you wearing?" He shook his head in disapproval. "What was the purpose of getting clean and-" he sniffed in the air, "using all of my soap if you put on the same, dirty clothes? Take them off, right now. You can put them in that cupboard over there, and in the chair behind you, you will find a dressing gown." He turned back to look absently at the street, granting the boy some privacy. "It will be too big, but I wouldn't complain if I were you." 

As the reply came after a bit of insecure shifting of his weight and John thinking how to get out of here -and carry that golden picture frame from the wall with him just as well - John stepped up the stairs hesitantly. Just that one picture frame would give the whole lot some bread and maybe even a bit of cheese... and surely enough to get himself some of the really, really good sausages as well... But, right now, he was not even coming out of this house. The door was locked, which shouldn't be a problem as John could pick locks, but... dogs? He had already had some bad experiences with those animals... Once again, John was just guessing where the right door might be but finally opened the right one. Even after the hot shower, all of his muscles were still tensed, his shoulders raised. John did not really feel like apologising for 'taking his time'. He never had an issue with 'taking his time'... on the street, time was pointless. His eyebrows furrowed, though, as he was asked what he was wearing, looking down at himself. Well. "My clothes.", he replied in a murmur, sounding rather confused than anything. His head moved up, though, as he was told to undress, his face whitening. Oh, that happened as well sometimes. Men coming and asking - mostly girls -to raise their skirts for a bit of chocolate or a bottle of juice... Lots of them were asking little Billy as well when they got him, but John would always interfere. He knew what they were doing, he wouldn't let lil’ Billy experience that as well, no matter how nice something to eat sounded. That this man was asking this of him now, though, was... unexpected. Stiffly, John's hands rose, starting to undo one button after another, letting fall one piece of cloth after the other, the fear in his eyes just growing. Even as he hurried to get the gown and wrapped himself into it, wearing nothing but his old, tattered underwear, it was obvious that he was still terrified. If that was the prize for trying to get a watch this man could easily replace... then... then... John didn't even know, what then... 

When the rustling of clothes ceased and the boy seemed to have stilled himself, Mycroft turned around to face him. His own expression was cold, but the fear in the bay's face could not be mistaken. Mycroft ignored this and used the tip of his umbrella to look through the pile of clothes, huffing disapprovingly when he couldn't find any underwear. "Your undergarments, boy." He made a wave with his hand, showing that he expected also those to end up on the floor. Mycroft wouldn't risk anything when it came to the risk of disease or various tiny little creatures he didn't want crawling around his house, and he could see the boy's discomfort. Scaring him a little wouldn't hurt after the boy's attempt to steal from him. He waited until the worn and dirty underwear ended up on the floor before he, without a word, walked in a slow circle around the teenager. He stopped behind him, knowing how much it would stress the other, and looked at him from head to toe. Young, clearly, and raised by the hard conditions on the streets. "What is your name, boy?" he asked, intentionally leaning forward to speak near his ear. He was playing a psychological game and he could only agree to the words he heard his younger brother murmur in his head. You're enjoying it "Do you know why you are here, boy? What you did wrong?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly shorter chapter as I'm on a holiday but didn't want to let you guys hanging. More regular stuff from the end of next week again x

John's muscles were tensing harder together, making him quiver a bit as the man stepped closer, forcing himself to stay right where he was, his gaze fixed on the umbrella. He knew what people used canes for, and he could well imagine the umbrella being here in quite a similar fashion...   
The way it was poking through his clothes, dissecting them slowly wasn't any more appealing either, John considering to just step forward and onto them, just so the man would stop searching through them, the thin fabrics likely to tear through just the man’s movements.   
What was he looking for, either ways? John owned _nothing_ , there wouldn't be anything of value he could find... 

 

Still, John was too afraid. He wasn't sure what the man was about to do, and the street has taught him that keeping low and humble could have benefits as well. If people didn't expect you to fight, they would be too startled once you did...   
As he was called out to undress himself fully, though, he did step a bit back, wrapping his arms, and by default the gown tighter around himself, his gaze shifting to the man.   
For a while, he just stared at him, terrified, but appraising, before he did finally slide a hand beneath the robe and let his underpants slide down onto the floor, stepping out of them very, very slowly, nearly losing his balance as he raised a leg from his shivering limbs.   
Just when John thought, that the posh man was simply about to leave the room, but the man’s voice soon echoed behind him, making him jump and tum around, stepping back another step.   
"Jack.", he replied in a croak. All of them were Jacks and Jennys. In their gang, of course. The other groups had other names... It was easier to just lie than to have anyone being able to trace him down.   
Instead of replying to the next questions, though, he crossed his arms in front of his chest once more, for a while just staying silent and still, before he shook his head. There was nothing wrong with trying to survive...   
"Jack..." Mycroft repeated slowly, before he cocked an eyebrow.   
No, that was not it. The way the name was said sounded too rehearsed. But if that was the game the boy wanted to play... "Very well, Jack. I'm Mr Holmes." He would let this Jack play his game, but he had no reason to join him in it. 

Mycroft idly moved his umbrella over the floor before he lifted it and placed the tip under the boy's chin. His grip around the handle and his cold eyes showed clearly that he wouldn't hesitate to slap the boy across the head if he pulled away, and once he was sure that the message and implied threat was understood he turned the small head from side to side to look at him from different angles.   
Tanned, teeth in need of a proper brush and a visit at the dentist and hair too long and tousled. But, and Mycroft reluctantly had to give him credit for that, the boy had cleaned his ears. The umbrella slowly returned to a vertical position with the tip resting on the floor.   
"You have nothing to say for yourself, Jack? No explanation or, oh I don't know, and apology? No?" Mycroft shook his head and lifted the umbrella again, this time to point at the comer of the room.   
"Over there, Jack. Kneel. Back straight and facing the wall. You will keep your filthy thief hands on your head and you may neither move nor talk until you are ready to have a proper conversation with me. You may then ask for my attention. Off you go." He couldn't help but give the boy a small slap on his bottom with the umbrella as he walked past him to sit down at his desk, knowing how much the boy's poor knees soon would hurt. 

John watched the man carefully as he raised the umbrella, letting him tum his head, though his eyes stayed fixed on the older man, not really sure what to do now. He would just like to put some proper clothes on again, before just dashing off as quickly as possible...   
For as much as he cared, without that goddamn picture frame as well... Maybe, he would be able to get here with his boys at another time... Well.   
Not likely.   
But with him washed now, at least, maybe he would be able to trick someone into thinking that he wasn't homeless... maybe he would be able to get a job at the markets to earn at least a coin or two. Or carrying newspapers, maybe... But even that was something privileged for the rich kids. ...Or at least the kids with a roof over their heads.   
John shook his head, his eyes narrowing a bit at that What was he meant to apologize for? The posh git would not even miss it... Most likely, he had a dozen of those laying around there.   
And: He had not even managed to steal it in the first place! If there was someone who had to apologize, it would be Mycroft! ...well, John didn't really know for what, but he surely had to.   
But... what? His eyebrows furrowed even more, and he was just about to open his mouth and to protest that, oh, no, he wouldn't do that.   
That he wasn't a child and that stupid, posh git couldn't tell him to do anything, he had no right for any, before he was already hit with the umbrella. This time, he jumped high, scrambling a step away with a soft, little squeak.   
It had not even hurt properly... Well... It had. But just because he had gotten into a fight with some other boy of another gang, and... well. Umbrella and bruises never were a good combination. Fine then. Would he kneel there like a child.   
He stomped over to the corner as he was sure that Mycroft sat, not liking that he wouldn't be able to see him, but obediently forced himself into position. The gown rolled up a little, showing his legs up to his knees, even his calves painted with bruises and healed scars. Nothing seemed to be infected, all of them seemed halfway taken care of.

For a while, John just scoffed in front of himself, trying to puzzle a way out of there. Most likely, without the umbrella charging at him again. Or anything else going after him, like any of the dogs. And without a police officer... and without Mycroft going to remember him — _argh_.   
It seemed to be impossible, and things started to cloud John's mind.   
Things like... how soft the carpet was.   
Or how warm the whole house was.   
Or how nice he smelled now, John taking a few deep breaths to sniffle himself, the shower having done wonder for his body odour. 

The deep breathes turned more and more regular though as time passed... and at one point in time, John simply tipped over, hands down, cheek leaning against the wall... The boy had actually managed to fall asleep, this here being far more comfortable than he had been in years, and even through the fear he was feeling, the exhaustion of years finally lulled him into sleep.

Mycroft soon lost interest in the kneeling boy. He looked at him long enough to make sure that he was in the correct position before he turned to his pile of work and trusted his ears to snap up any attempts of the boy to move.   
It was the usual, some scandal to deal with and some nation threatening the security of England. Dull, but necessary. The sun set behind him and the lamppost was turned on to provide the street with light, but was not until he heard a small collision that he frowned and looked up. A collision between the boy's head and the wall, it would seem.   
"Oh dear," he mumbled to himself with a shake of his head. The boy was obviously exhausted, only made worse by the stress of him being more or less kidnapped of the street. Mycroft's decision to take the boy home had been anything but morally correct, but he couldn't care less.   
He groaned when he stood up, stretching his stiff neck and back, and carefully picked the boy up in his arms. He weighed close to nothing, alarmingly light and thin, and the purple marks covering the pale skin when the dressing gown revealed a leg hinted of the hard life he was used to.   
Mycroft had never liked children, young or older, and when he looked down at the boy's face with dark circles under his eyes and the first signs of stubble he saw trouble. A potential use, but also lots of problem. He reached the guest room and tucked the boy in under the covers, certain that it had been years since he last slept in something so comfortable. Mycroft spend a moment just watching, silently standing by the bed, before he turned around and left the dark room and the sleeping boy, locking the door behind him. 

John dreamed of fluffy clouds and rainbows and unicorns. Well, not quite. He never really dreamed. He sometimes woke up with a silent scream on his lips but he could never quite remember enough what he had dreamed in the first place. But this time? He must be dreaming about laying in a giant, large, fluffy cloud, because there was no way he could actually be anywhere this nice. Everything around him was soft and warm and comfortable and so perfect, it even surprised him that he had not waken up. Because... things as beautiful as those did have to mean that something was off.   
As John woke up, though, it was not for the reason of doubting the existence of the cloud, but his bladder started to doubt that it could hold anything in any time longer. It was surprising. That his body was still able to produce urine even though he barely was eating nor drinking anything. He slept with his mouth open, just for the case that it would start to rain… It was clearly a very urgent need this time though, John pushing up to sit, just then remembering that, no, he usually did not sleep in a bed. Panic flooded him –before he remembered what had happened yesterday. Where he was. Which made him panic a little again, staying in the bed for some time, looking around the room, enjoying the warmness and softness and prettiness of everything, before he started to squirm. 

Yep. 

He had to pee.

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave some feedback x


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